


Remind Me Who I Am

by Star and Shield (Griselda_Banks)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Epic Bromance, Gen, Heavy Angst, Men Being Affectionate, Men Crying, Platonic Pining, Plot What Plot, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, The White Tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28299573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Banks/pseuds/Star%20and%20Shield
Summary: What if Bucky never regained his memories? What if he walked away that day, but not because he remembered Steve? Who does he become, when he can't remember who he was?
Relationships: BrooklynBros - Relationship, FoxholeBros, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	Remind Me Who I Am

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CapGirlCanuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/gifts), [SergeantToMyCaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SergeantToMyCaptain/gifts).



> The initial inspiration for this fic came from the movie The Majestic, though if you watch that movie and then read this, you probably wouldn't be able to tell except that both have to do with amnesia ^^' This idea has been sitting around, needing to be written, for two and a half years or so, but this year I finally decided to actually buckle down and get it out there. One nice thing about lockdowns and quarantines and working from home this year is that I've had a lot of extra time to write, so I've been able to devote more time to it than I normally would. It probably doesn't seem like it would take that long to write, especially considering there's hardly any plot to speak of, but the style I decided on ended up requiring a lot more thought than I was expecting; I felt like I needed to weigh every sentence before actually writing it out, instead of just letting the words flow. Hopefully that makes it better in the end, I guess. It was also a challenge to not just write my fic _Make Me Whole_ all over again, since the scenarios are quite similar ^^' For those who have been waiting far too long to see this fic, my apologies—and I hope you like the finished product!
> 
> Besides the song I quote below, my mood music also consisted of “Learning to Love You” by Jake Scott and “More Than a Memory” by Hoobastank.

_When I lose my way  
_ _And I forget my name  
_ _Remind me who I am  
_ _In the mirror all I see  
_ _Is who I don't wanna be  
_ _Remind me who I am  
_ _In the loneliest places  
_ _When I can't remember what grace is_

_Tell me once again who I am to you  
_ _Who I am to you  
_ _Tell me, lest I forget, who I am to you  
_ _That I belong to you_

_\- “Remind Me Who I Am” by Jason Gray_

~*~*~*~*~*~

You don't know who you are.

You don't know who he is.

All you know is that he's dying—after dozens of kills, you know what death looks like—and you can't let it happen. He's your mission. Your orders were clear. You've never disobeyed your orders before...or if you have, the memory of it has been buried so deeply underneath mountains of pain that you could never retrieve it again.

But you look at your target, cheeks bloody and bruised with the imprint of your own metal knuckles, and you know you can't finish the job the way he taunts you—no, _begs_ you—to do.

“Then finish it,” he quavers, his voice little more than a whisper. “Because I'm with you...to the end of the line.”

You don't know what that means, but it freezes you right in your tracks. Your fist is poised above your head, ready to smash into his skull and put an end to this confusing, infuriating man who claims to know you and calls you strange names and refuses to be killed as staunchly as he refuses to kill you....

And then he's falling, before you can make up your mind what to do about him. He's falling, down to the river below. In the state he's in, he won't last long. Even if he manages to avoid the falling rubble from the plummeting helicarriers, he'll most likely drown. With the Potomac filling his lungs, your mission will be complete. This has made your job laughably simple; all you have to do is stand back and wait.

But you know that's the one thing you simply can't do.

The strange things he's said to you are part of the reason, his claims that you know each other, that you have a name. You want to know more. But the way he looks at you, oh, the way he  _looks_ at you....

No one has ever looked at you like that. You don't know what it means, but something in your gut tells you that it's special. No one else  _ will _ ever look at you like that. And, as you stare down at the receding form of that strange man, an aching pit opens in the center of your chest.

You want him to look at you like that again. You  _ need _ him to look at you like that again. You can't stand the thought of letting those blue eyes close forever. Not when they might focus on you again, and soften with that look of sadness and...and  _ something. _ You need to ask him why he looks like  _ that _ at the Winter Soldier.

So you dive down into the river after him. You swim with all your might until you find him in the murky water, then grasp him with the metal hand that nearly killed him, and tow him up to the surface. Your right arm isn't obeying you, so you can only swim with your legs.

You aren't sure if he's alive until you drag him onto the bank of the river. Every part of your body is aching—your dislocated shoulder, your ribs (several of which are probably broken), and your head. Pounding, pounding, pounding. But pain is familiar after all these years, so you pay it no mind.

It takes a moment, but finally he coughs weakly, spitting up a mouthful of the river and beginning to draw shallow breaths. Still alive, then. Good.

But he's bleeding out. The river washed away some of the blood, but you can still see red stains all over—side, shoulder, thigh, stomach...and his face, of course, a mess of cuts and bruises and swelling. If he's anything like you (and you know how hard it was to fell him, so you know he is), most of these injuries will heal relatively fast. It's the one in his abdomen you need to worry about. If you leave it for much longer....

He'll die. Not good.

You lost most of your guns along the way, but you still have a knife. You use it to slice up his uniform, cutting it away from the gaping wound and fashioning it into strips you clumsily wrap around him with your one good hand.

You wish he would wake up. You wish he would look up at you with that...expression. Whatever it is. You also worry that if he _did_ look at you, you would see the fear and blame you expected to see before.

But he doesn't wake. His eyes stay closed, his skin pale where it's not bloody and broken, his fingertips turning blue with cold. He's probably going into shock. He needs a doctor.

Helicopters fly overhead, like startled flies surveying the wreckage. It could be hours before anyone finds him. No one knows where to look. Probably no one even expects him to have survived the crash.

Just like you. Hydra—if there are any agents who survive the fallout—will think you're dead. You pause for a second, considering this strange new idea of...freedom.

But there will be time  _(time, time, you have time now)_ to think about that later. For now, you just need to make sure this man lives to see the end of the day, on the off chance he might look at you again.

You find his earpiece, miraculously still in place. On the other end, people are talking, frantically conferring over where Steve was last and where he might be now. They sound angry. They sound afraid.

You lift his hand and speak into the little device around his wrist. You speak calmly, ignoring the way the voices on the other end shush each other and call Steve's name. And after giving them his exact location, you carefully place his hand over the makeshift bandage as some kind of flimsy protection.

One final look, and then you turn and stagger towards the trees. You are out of sight by the time helicopter blades cut the air.

~*~*~*~*~*~  
  


Everything hurts. The smaller cuts and bruises heal within a day or two. But underneath your thick skin and the civilian clothes you stole from the back room of a thrift store, you're hiding worse wounds. Every time you breathe in, sharp pain lances down your side, a constant reminder of that terrifying moment when the metal beam pinned you to the floor and you were sure you were going to die. And the first thing you did after you escaped the helicarrier crash was find an empty alleyway where you wedged your right arm between a wall and a dumpster, and popped your shoulder back into place. You bit down on your lip so you wouldn't scream, knowing your arm would be useless otherwise. It was worth it, but it hasn't stopped throbbing since.

Your back is sore, your neck is sore, your feet are sore. You're hungry and dirty, and you're so exhausted because you can only catch a half-hour of sleep here or there before the presence of another human being jolts you alert again.

But you're free. _Free._ The word hardly has any meaning to you; as far back as your memory stretches (though that's hardly saying anything), you've always belonged to someone else. Your handlers would tell you where to go, what to do, even when those chilling Words weren't forcing your limbs to obey. You had no other options, so you did as they commanded.

But now Hydra is gone. It's been a week, and no one has come after you. You've seen the headlines, you've heard people talking on the street. Captain America has destroyed Hydra once again. Your masters are dead or in hiding, so you have nothing to fear from them.

You could go anywhere now. The logical side of your brain keeps telling you to leave now, before someone realizes who you are and catches you again. You should go away, far away, where no one knows you or has any idea of what you've done. But for some reason, you stay in the city, wandering up and down the streets, doing your best to blend in with the crowds and not attract attention. It's like you're waiting for something. Looking for something. But what?

Though you avoid that question for as long as you can, it keeps nagging at the back of your mind. You don't want to think about it. You don't want to admit that anything—anyone—still has that kind of control over you. Not when you can make choices of your own for the first time.

It's a sign that forces you to finally admit why you're still lingering. A large banner on the side of a building, advertising an exhibit featured inside. It's the face on the banner that first catches your eye. _His_ face. Captain America. He looks like he did when you first saw him, standing tall and proud and somehow making that silly uniform of his look noble.

It's not the way he looked the last time you saw him, half-stripped and dripping, blood oozing from a dozen cuts, one eye swelling shut....

A strange hunger awakens inside you, like the one that prompted you to save that man in the first place. You long for... _something._ You don't know the word for it, but the  _need_ pulls you closer and closer. Maybe...just maybe...you can find some answers here. Or at least a hint.

It's surprisingly easy to slip in a side entrance when no one's looking and bypass the security guards and metal detector. There's no way you'd be able to explain why you have a fully-functional arm made of steel, after all. So you blend in with the crowd, letting them sweep you along as you follow the signs to the Captain America exhibit.

The signs tell the story (in nowhere  _near_ enough detail).  _His_ story. The story of how a pathetically skinny young man was chosen to become the world's first supersoldier.  _Did it hurt?_ you wonder.  _Did they have to use something like the Chair on him? Did they say Words to make him do what they ordered?_ Somehow, you know it's different. He wasn't an automaton or a dutiful soldier following orders when you fought him. He fought with the strength of conviction. He'd decided to do that on his own.

Besides, you soon read the portion of his story that explains how he worked for a secret organization that one day became S.H.I.E.L.D., the very organization he just helped bring down along with Hydra. You read about how he gave his life to save the world, only to be discovered alive seventy years later.

There is a little room where a documentary plays on a screen, with interviews of people he apparently knew back then. They all say glowing things about him, talking about how brave he was, how inspiring. But none of them explain what you most want to know.

Just when you're about to give up, you turn a corner and find a whole section of the exhibit devoted to the squad of men you've seen mentioned multiple times. The Howling Commandos. There are several mannequins displaying the uniforms of those men. You slowly begin a circuit of the exhibit, looking at the photos and video footage of each man, reading the stories of how they came to work under the command of Captain America.

It's when you're turning away from the wall talking about James Falsworth that you see it. Another wall about one of the Howling Commandos. Another large black-and-white photo of someone's face.  _Your_ face.

Numbly, you cross the room to that larger-than-life picture of yourself. Your hair is shorter in the picture, and though their expression is serious, there isn't that darkness you've seen in your eyes when you look in public restroom mirrors. And there, emblazoned above this picture of a you that used to be, is your name written in clear, distinct letters.

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. I'm not gonna fight you. You're my friend._

_I'm with you to the end of the line._

This time, you read the story of  _your_ life. You see a family photo of a blurry little boy who is supposedly you. You read about how you joined the Army and left your best friend behind, only to have him rescue you from a Hydra base. The words jumble and blur together, crowding meaninglessly into your mind. You have no recollection of any of this. None of it sounds familiar in the slightest.

Then your eye is caught by movement, and you focus on a video clip of Bucky— _you_ —and Captain America. You're both smiling, laughing, as if you don't have a care in the world even though you both look grubby and sweaty as if you've just come home from a battle.

The way he looks at you...the way he  _looks_ at you....

No. Not you. Bucky.

The short clip loops, over and over again. Bucky says something, laughing and shaking his head, while Steve grins as bright as the sun, his shoulders shaking as he laughs too. The two look at each other, their eyes meeting mid-laugh as if drawn irresistibly to each other. Something passes between them, unspoken but understood in full by both of them. Something warm and clean and strong and  _safe._

_Look at me like that,_ you think desperately, ignoring the crowds jostling against you on every side.  _Please,_ please _look at me like that. Look at me with that...what is it? Warmth? Affection? The way you looked at me on the helicarrier...but without the sadness. Look at me and smile._

_Just once. Just look at me._

~*~*~*~*~*~

The first step is finding him. You slip into a library and use one of the computers in there to try to find something. Eventually, you find your way to some kind of Captain America fan club, where people post photos they've taken of him in public. You don't really understand why anyone would do that—if they were planning an assassination, they wouldn't post their pictures all over the place...but if they aren't wanting to kill him, then why do they follow him around and debate whether he has a girlfriend or not?

After examining a few hundred photos and hunting down the locations you can pinpoint, you have it narrowed down to a radius of ten miles. You know where he does his grocery shopping, where he gets his hair cut, where he goes running, where he gets gas. And then you find a news article from a week ago—just two days before S.H.I.E.L.D. fell—mentioning a shootout in an apartment building that left one body and lots of damage behind.

You have a nagging feeling that you were involved somehow, but you don't remember. Was that another mission? Did they wipe you when you failed to kill him, and then had you try again?

It doesn't matter. You know where to look for him now.

When you get to the apartment building, it's easy enough to figure out which one is his. It's the one with cardboard over the broken window. You can see exactly where you must have stood (if it  _was_ you) on the roof of the next building over. It would provide a perfect vantage point to see into his living room.

You slip into the apartment building and locate the front door. You reach for the doorknob, but stop yourself.

What are you doing? Returning to the scene of the crime? If you show your face here, you'll only be met with hostility. You  _did_ try to kill him, after all.

_Please don't make me do this. You're my friend. I'm with you to the end of the line._

Your hand closes around the doorknob...and miraculously, it's unlocked. Surprise freezes you to the spot for a second, but then you hear someone coming up the stairs behind you, and you hastily slip inside.

Heart pounding, you stand in the entryway for several prolonged moments. You can hear someone moving around in the living room. Just a few paces down this little hallway, you'll come face-to-face with him again.

All you have to do is walk forward. Then you'll see him. And he'll look at you.

Maybe...maybe then. Maybe then you'll understand.

You creep to the end of the hallway. A man is kneeling in the living room, piling some books into a box. Your feet are frozen to the floor. You can't move an inch. This is it.

Then the man straightens up and turns around, and you realize...it's not him.

It's not Captain America.

The man has dark skin. Black hair. A short beard. He's nothing like the man you were expecting to see.

As the man starts and takes a step back, reaching for a weapon that isn't there, you remember him. He was on the helicarriers with Captain America. He had some kind of jetpack with wings. You remember destroying it and shoving him to his death.

Apparently he survived.

The man's eyes dart towards an end table, on which sits a pistol. You reach it before he does, your body giving you extra speed. But you don't fire it at him. You release the magazine and pocket it, so that neither of you can fire the gun.

Because you don't want to kill this man. He's your ticket. You'll use force if necessary, but you have a feeling that everything will go more smoothly if you can convince him to show you the way willingly.

“Where is Captain America?” you demand.

The man's eyes take in everything at a glance—the empty gun in your hand, the clothes you're wearing, maybe even the way you're standing with your right arm tucked close to your body. It still hurts.

“What makes you think I'd tell you?” he asks slowly, keeping very still.

This man knows where Captain America is. They're allies. Friends. You want to grab him and shake him until he lets something slip, but you don't. Patience. Patience. At least he's talking to you instead of trying to kill you or run away.

“If I was going to kill him,” you say, holding his gaze defiantly, “I had a perfect opportunity before. But I didn't. I was the one who told you where he was after he fell in the river.”

The man's brow was furrowed in thought. “Why do you want to know where he is?”

Why  _do_ you want to know? What are you hoping to get out of this? Mostly, you just want to see if he'll look at you the way he did before. You want to ask him what it means. You want to figure out why everything is different now.

But how do you explain all of that to this man? It wouldn't make any sense to him. It doesn't make any sense to  _you._ Maybe if you said it, he'd think you were crazy and do everything in his power to keep you away from Captain America.

So you say, “I just want to talk to him. He said...he was my friend.”

The man's eyebrows rise slightly. “Do you...remember him at all?”

Your stomach squirms with shame as you think of the museum exhibit. All those words describing the life you once lived. You think of that video clip of the two men laughing with each other, and you shake your head, frowning down at the floor.

Stupid. Of course he won't look at you like he did all those years ago. This is pointless.

“Okay,” the man says, breaking into your thoughts. “I'm going to call Steve, and if he's up for it, I'll take you to him.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The man's name is Sam, it turns out. He leads you to his house in a car that he's renting, because apparently you destroyed his other car. He reminds you of this several times during the trip, muttering under his breath and sending you dark looks. You can't remember doing it, but you suppose it makes sense. You  _were_ trying to kill them, after all.

Whatever Captain America said on the phone, apparently it was enough to convince Sam to bring you to him despite his misgivings. Sam isn't happy about it, you can tell, but he does it anyway. What did Captain America threaten him with? What is he holding over Sam's head, that Sam will put up with you this far, even though it's obvious he doesn't trust you an inch?

In what seems like no time at all, the nerve-wracking car ride is over. Sam pulls up in front of a small house, where Captain America is apparently staying since his apartment was so heavily damaged. Grabbing the box of books and other items he'd gone to the apartment to retrieve, Sam leads the way to the front door. You follow more slowly, your left hand curled around the handle of your knife in your pocket, as it has been the whole way here.

Inside the house is a large open space, combined living room and kitchen, with stairs around the corner leading up to a second floor. You take this all in at a glance, but immediately your eyes are drawn to the sitting area, where the couch has been unfolded into a bed. And lying there, propped up with pillows and swathed in blankets and bandages....

It's him.

Those blue eyes find yours immediately, darting across the open space between you and spearing through you before you're even remotely prepared. There you stand, rooted to the floor, oblivious to whatever Sam is doing or saying.

Because he's  _looking_ at you again. You inch closer, trying to figure out what it is you see in his eyes.

It's something...warm and bright. Like a fire, only...gentler. Staring into those eyes, you can feel those blue flames closing around you, trapping you. Yet somehow, you're not afraid. You know, looking into those eyes, that you can't leave. Not because he won't let you, but because you won't find this anywhere else.

No one has ever looked at you like that. You barely even have a week's worth of memories, but you know it's true. He's the only one who's ever looked at you,  _into_ you, with that...whatever it is. It's what you saw in the video clip in the museum. It's what you saw in the helicarrier. And no matter how long you look, you still don't  _understand_ it!

“Bucky....”

For the first time, you notice the rest of him, besides those eyes still staring right into your soul. There is an enormous bruise on his cheek, and several cuts still healing across his face. You remember putting each of those wounds there, smashing your metal fist into his lip, his cheek, his eye.... Underneath the blanket and the loose clothes he's wearing, you know you'd probably find bandages hiding the other wounds you gave him. The thigh, the side, the shoulder...the stomach....

He smiles.

His lips move awkwardly, pulling on the healing cuts in what has to be a painful way. He looks up at the man who put those wounds there in the first place, the man who nearly killed him...and he  _smiles._

“Why?” you blurt out, before you can think better of it. “Why didn't you fight back?”

It's not what you really want to ask, but you don't know  _how_ to ask that.

His answer is exactly what you realize you should have been expecting. “Because you're my friend.”

“I don't remember you,” you blurt out. Just to get that out of the way. Just in case he was wondering. “The museum said we were friends...but I don't remember any of that.”

His face falls a little in disappointment, and you feel an inexplicable swell of pain in your chest. Why? Why should  _you_ care what he thinks? He can't hurt you like this. And if he tells Sam to punish you in his stead for not living up to his expectations, you can easily outrun him.

But then he quietly asks, “So why did you come back?”

He's looking at you, he's  _looking at you,_ and you can feel something burning inside, but you don't know what it is, and that...that is terrifying. “I don't know!” you snarl, turning to storm away.

It's not worth it. Let him keep his mysteries. You can go fend for yourself; you don't have to understand why he keeps looking at you like that.

“Buck...please....”

And those two words root you to the ground. You can't move, not with those words ringing in your ears. Even though you can't see him anymore, you can  _feel_ him looking at you. Begging you to stay.

You should leave. You shouldn't let him trap you like this. There's no reason for you to do what he's asking of you. Now that you have no masters, you can do anything you like.

But what else is there for you? Who else is there, in the whole wide world, who can give you what  _he_ can?

So you let the shackles close around your ankles again. You turn around and walk back to him—to Steve Rogers, Captain America, your mission—and you surrender. You look down into his wide, hopeful eyes and say, “Tell me. Tell me who I am.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Steve talks for hours, while you sit on the edge of a chair from which you can watch both him and Sam, who sits quietly in a corner. Steve confirms everything you read in the museum, but adds so much more detail. He talks about growing up together, how Bucky used to save him from bullies, how Bucky took care of him when he was sick, how Bucky helped him out after Steve's mother died, how Hydra captured Bucky, how Bucky decided to fight alongside him. How Bucky fell to his death. How Steve mourned him until he discovered he was still alive.

The more he talks, the more answers you hear, the more you realize...that's not you. You aren't the person he's describing.

Maybe you were, once. But you can't remember any of it. All you can remember is pain and confusion, not sleeping on couch cushions on the floor of a tiny apartment in Brooklyn. You don't remember your parents, your sisters, what it was like to have a place you could call 'home.' You can't remember why you agreed to fight Hydra with Steve, after they'd tortured and nearly killed you.

Most of all, you know for a fact that you're not the Bucky who helped Steve fight his battles. Bucky would save Steve. He would fight off anyone who hurt him, then pick him up off the ground and patch him up. He would protect Steve.

You almost killed him. You didn't protect him from bullies, you  _were_ the bully. If not for you, he wouldn't be hurt at all. But because of you, he almost bled out and drowned.

No, you're not Bucky anymore.

When Steve finally talks himself out, you say, “I don't remember any of that.” Just so he doesn't get his hopes up at all.

This time, Steve doesn't look disappointed. “That's okay,” he says. “Maybe your memories will return over time, now that....”  _Now that no one's running your brain through a meat grinder,_ he doesn't say, but you're pretty sure that's what he's thinking.

You stop to think about that for a moment. What if he's right, and your memories  _do_ come back? If you can remember the way you used to be...maybe then you can figure out how to be Bucky again for real. Maybe then you'll understand why he didn't fight to protect himself from you, even though you were about to kill him.

Maybe you'll finally know why he said,  _I'm with you to the end of the line._

Suddenly, something squeezes around your throat, choking you from the inside out. You're not sure, but...is it called...hope? Cautiously, you meet Steve's eyes. “You think so?”

Steve smiles, and his eyes are shining with that same look that drew you here in the first place. “It's worth a shot, isn't it? Maybe we can help you jog your memory. So...will you...stay with me until you get your memories back?”

Half of you is screaming to run before those eyes trap you again. But...you can't resist. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, you nod. “Okay.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Living with Steve and Sam is...strange. Stranger than anything you can remember doing. Not that that means anything.

They don't hurt you. They don't even yell at you, or at each other. Instead, they smile and laugh. They tell jokes that you don't understand. They watch movies and read books, instead of training or giving you missions. They help each other cook food more delicious than anything you've ever tasted, and afterwards they help each other wash the dishes.

Sam prepared a room for you, with a bed for you to sleep in and a door you can lock behind you when you want. He and Steve both gave you clothes to wear instead of the ones you took from that thrift store, which had begun to smell. They make enough food for you to eat as well, and make sure you have enough supplies to stay clean and groomed, though it takes you several tries before you really figure out what to do with them all.

There was only one time (that you know of, anyway) that Sam complained about you staying here. It was on that first day, after showing you which room you'd sleep in and where the bathroom was. You closed the bathroom door, then cracked it open just enough to listen to Steve and Sam talking downstairs. They spoke in low voices, but your enhanced ears could still pick up most of what they were saying.

“Are you sure about this?” Sam asked. “He _did_ try to kill us both, you know. And almost succeeded.”

“He has no reason to hurt us,” Steve said. “Hydra's gone. Besides, if he wanted to kill us, don't you think he would have done something by now?”

Sam said something, but all you could catch was Steve's response: “No. I believe in him. He'll remember something. Eventually, he will. For now, the only way we're going to get him to trust us is if we trust him.” After a pause, he said, “Can I ask you to do that?”

Sam sighed, but in the end he said, “Yeah. If you really do trust him...I'll do my best.”

And that was the last you ever heard of Sam's suspicions. Sometimes he still eyes you curiously when Steve isn't looking, but he doesn't complain about you being here. He doesn't keep reminding you that you ruined his car—except for once, when he brought his new car home and said, “If I let you ride shotgun, will you promise not to tear out the steering wheel this time?” You don't understand what he means, but it seems he has...what's the term? 'Forgiven' you?

As for Steve...well, he trusted you from the beginning, didn't he? He trusted you enough to drop his shield and stop fighting back.

They're both stupid. For trusting you. For letting you live—more than that, for letting you live with  _them,_ eating their food and wearing their clothes and taking up space that they probably weren't planning on giving up. But they keep letting you stay. Steve moves the rest of his belongings into Sam's house, continuing to sleep on the couch bed. They both seem to accept this as simply what their lives look like now, and don't complain about anything.

They're so unbelievably stupid.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Steve looks at you differently now. Well...that's not entirely true. It's like there's a second layer of meaning in those looks now. A new flavor swirled into the emotion in his eyes.

Privately, you start calling it the Waiting Look. He'll say something or do something, then turn and look at you as if expecting you to respond in some particular way. Or like he's waiting for you to pick up on some kind of secret joke.

He's waiting for Bucky.

You're not Bucky.

Sure, that might be your name now. And yes, technically you're the same man that Steve grew up with and fought beside. But you don't remember those days. You don't remember pulling bullies off him in an alleyway. You don't remember watching his back on the battlefield. You don't remember anything substantial, nor anything inconsequential.

He's looking for a book. You're nothing but a blank page.

The worst feeling of all is when he says, “Do you remember...?” and brings up something one of you did or said eons ago. Naturally, your answer is always that no, you don't remember. You don't know why he keeps on asking, but he does. And then his face falls with such  _disappointment._ Like every time, he's hoping that  _this_ time will be different.

It's not different. It never is. It never will be.

Often, in the quiet, dark hours in the dead of night, you lie awake and wonder what will happen once he figures that out. What will happen when he finally gives up on you? When he realizes that this is all just a waste of time?

He'll make you leave. He'll throw you out, because after that you'll be nothing more than a cruel reminder of the friend he's never getting back. Like a walking gravestone.

He'll stop looking at you the way he does now, and instead.... You don't even want to think about the way he'll look at you then.

No, you  _can't_ think about it. You can't bear it.

So your only option is to make sure you remember who you used to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~

You keep wracking your brains for the smallest crumb of a memory that you can pick up and hold onto. At night, when sleep won't come, you lie in the darkness and stillness and try to open your mind. You try to not think any conscious thoughts, but just allow images and feelings to float to the top of your mind. The most you ever achieve that way is a cloudy blur of color and motion, and the sharp sting of frustration.

During the day, you listen closely to everything Steve tells you about yourself and your history together. Every time he offers you a new piece of information, you strain to see if it seems familiar at all. Sometimes you almost think it does, and your heart lifts with a sudden burst of excitement...only to plummet again when you realize he's told you that story before.

You write down the things Steve tells you in a little notebook. It's one of the first things you ask for, the first time you dare open your mouth and request something of these people who have given you so much so freely. Actually, all you ask for is a pen and paper, “so I can write down what you told me,” you explain quietly.

Steve gives you a notebook and a pen that writes well, and says to ask for more if you need them. “Maybe writing this stuff down will jog your memories,” he says, and you see the hope in his eyes. You can almost smell it; Steve always  _reeks_ of hope.

So you dutifully write everything down.  _My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Steve Rogers is my friend. He calls me Bucky. Sam Wilson is Steve's friend. He trusts me because Steve asked him to. I grew up with Steve. We've always been friends. I didn't know Sam before._

_I am safe. They are my friends. They want to help me._

That's how you fill the first page of the notebook. After that page, you write down everything Steve tells you, whether directly or through implication, about yourself and the things you're supposed to be able to remember.

You write down the big things. Birthdays. How Steve's parents died. How many sisters you had. How both of you became supersoldiers. Why you joined the Army. Why Steve wanted to eradicate Hydra. What Hydra was planning to do the day you almost killed Steve.

You scribble down the small things, too. Favorite colors. The name of a girl you apparently had a crush on when you were fifteen. The nicknames you gave each other. That the two of you went to see  _The Wizard of Oz_ ten times in the movie theater. Steve says you didn't like chocolate or potatoes, so you write that down too.

Periodically, you read back through your notes, hoping that maybe  _this_ time, something in them will spark a memory back to life. But you can't see the faces of your family members. You have no idea what  _The Wizard of Oz_ is. And chocolate is your favorite flavor, and you have to have at least two heaping spoonfuls of Sam's mashed potatoes every time he makes them.

Maybe you're not really Bucky Barnes after all. Maybe Hydra gave up on the real thing, and made a fake Bucky Barnes just to hurt Steve.

And if you're not Bucky...if you can never get back to being who you once were...what's the point of all this? Why even  _try_ to remember anything? Maybe you should just leave. There's nothing holding you here, after all.

Nothing except for Steve. Nothing except the way he looks at you. In the moments unmarred by the Waiting Look...he just...he  _looks_ at you. And it does something to you, every time. You don't know what it is, but it makes you stay. You are a bug, and his eyes are what pins you to the card, unable to crawl away from his scrutiny.

So you stay.

And stay.

And stay.

~*~*~*~*~*~

You're so selfish and greedy. Here you are, so often complaining to yourself and wishing things could be different, rather than simply being grateful for all the things you don't deserve.

You have delicious things to eat, three times a day. You have a warm bed and soft pillows at night. You have new, clean clothes that aren't stained with blood or reeking of sweat. You can take hot showers and shave off that scraggly beard.

No one yells at you. No one hits you. No one puts you in the Chair and laughs as you scream your lungs out. No one speaks the Words, no one orders you around.

Instead, when you come into the room, Steve  _looks_ at you and smiles. Sam starts calling you  _man_ and  _bro_ and  _Bucko,_ though you're not sure why. He doesn't say anything more about distrusting you, doesn't look at you warily anymore, and stops reminding you that you smashed his previous car to pieces.

They both go out of their way to help you, to include you. Steve still sleeps on the couch. Sam explains his jokes to you when you're confused (though it still doesn't make you laugh—you seem to have forgotten how). They both consult your opinion, rather than simply talking to each other and making decisions on their own, even though you never have anything substantial to offer the conversation.

They're both so good to you.  _Too_ good. It's not fair.

Because you can't give anything back. They've given you  _everything,_ but you have nothing to give. You can't even be normal. You can't even be the Bucky that Steve remembers. All you can do is take and take and take, like a ravenous wolf gorging itself and then turning to devour even more.

You can't even thank them for everything they've done. Sometimes it occurs to you that you should, and you open your mouth, but somehow you just can't find the right words. Or you do, but they won't come out. And then the moment passes, and once again you didn't thank them for doing so much more than they ever had to.

If you were the same Bucky you used to be, you would have thanked them a thousand times over, wouldn't you? If you could remember anything, you'd probably remember a hundred thousand times you'd thanked Steve, at least. The person you used to be was a good man. You know that very well from all the things Steve has told you, and from the  _way_ he tells you.

You can't even  _remember_ being that good.

Sometimes, you're so jealous of the old Bucky that you feel sick. You're so envious of the connection he  _(you?)_ had to Steve. The way he could make Steve smile. The sheer power his good, strong, generous, selfless heart had, that he would still mean so much to Steve after all these years.

You wish Steve would gush to someone about you the way he tells you about the old Bucky. You wish Steve would grab hold of every tiny detail of every moment you spend together these days, and cherish them for decades to come, enshrining them in his memory forever.

But that's stupid. Bucky is  _you,_ and you  _are_ Bucky, and it's pointless to be jealous of  _yourself._

And yet, you are. Does this mean you hate yourself?

~*~*~*~*~*~

As soon as Steve's wounds healed and you'd begun to settle into your new life with him and Sam, they started taking you around to various places. Sometimes you just go somewhere like the grocery store or the shopping mall, in order to get used to being around people in normal society. You doubt you'll ever stop looking over your shoulder, searching the crowd for potential danger, or keeping an eye on the nearest escape route. But after a while, you get used to the crowds of people pressing in around you and the cacophony of all these strange sounds echoing off the walls. As long as you can at least keep one of the others within sight at all times, you know nothing will go wrong.

You feel like a little kid, clutching to a handful of your mother's skirts so you won't get lost.

Other times, Steve takes you to certain places that apparently had some significance to you before, hoping that something will spark your memory. Once you're okay with being around crowds, the three of you take several trips to New York City. You walk around an old neighborhood that you both supposedly lived in, though even Steve says he hardly recognizes the place. You go to Coney Island, to several other places where sightseers gather.

Steve seems cheerful until he suggests going to see the Statue of Liberty, and you ask, “What's that?”

You go to some places in Washington, D.C. too. It's like the strangest tour in the world.  _And here's the street where I first saw your face. If you look to your left, you'll see the overpass where you almost killed us!_

And sure enough, they take you to Steve's old apartment building, where you shot Nick Fury through a window. You find your way up to the roof of the building a little ways down where Steve caught up to you and faced the Winter Soldier for the first time. Standing on that bare, nondescript rooftop, Steve smiles reminiscently. “I threw my shield at you, and you caught it in your metal hand. Then you threw it back to me—harder than I knew anyone could. That's when I knew you weren't just a good sniper, you were enhanced too.”

Looking at his face, you'd think he was remembering a whimsical story about bumping into an old friend on the bus, not desperately fighting against his former boss's would-be assassin.

But the worst part of it all is that you don't even remember any of  _this._ You don't remember shooting Fury, you don't remember catching the shield on this rooftop, you don't remember tearing the steering wheel out of Sam's car on a busy highway. You certainly don't remember fighting Steve in the middle of a street, or your mask falling off, or Steve saying your name in shock and confusion.

Because Steve looks so hopeful, you stand exactly where he says you stood before, and you slowly turn in a circle, looking around at all the buildings surrounding you. You strain your mind as hard as you can, searching through all the dusty corners,  _willing_ some hidden memory to finally reveal itself. You try and try and  _try_ to remember something as recent as two months ago, you try so hard your head begins to ache....

And nothing. Your mind is as blank as if you'd stayed at home and stared at the wall.

Steve tells you that you don't have to keep apologizing for not remembering when he's trying to jog your memory, but he's wrong.

You do.

The three of you go back to the places in D.C. several times. They're quicker to get to than the ones in New York. You keep going back, hoping against hope that  _this_ time, something will click. You have Steve and Sam recount every second they can remember of each encounter you had, and you retrace your steps as closely as you can, trying to stand in the exact place you did before.

Remember.  _Remember!_

Steve's favorite place to visit seems to be the rooftop where he first encountered you as the Winter Soldier. You go back there more times than anywhere else, and every time, he gets this reminiscent smile that softens his whole face. You half-expect him to suggest coming to this grubby rooftop for a picnic or something, he seems to like it so much. He's weirdly sentimental like that. If those helicarriers were still around, he'd probably get all nostalgic about them too, as if that wasn't where he'd almost died.

You stand in the same places you once did, you see the same views you must have seen that day. But that's as close as you ever seem to get to the person you used to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dreams of that rooftop hound you in your sleep. You keep dreaming of running across the roofs, fleeing your pursuer, then skidding to a halt at the edge of that final building and turning to face him. It's like your brain is trying to place you where Steve says you were, trying to fabricate a memory that was burned away forever.

Sometimes, the roof seems unbearably long, and you keep running and running and running without ever coming to the end of it. Sometimes you can hear footsteps chasing you, pounding across the concrete behind you, heavy breath panting against the back of your neck. Sometimes you whirl around to face it...and no one is there. You are completely alone, standing on a rooftop for no reason, unable to remember why you were running.

The worst dreams are the ones where you whirl around to see who is chasing you, and you find yourself face-to-face with a hideous monster. It's like a dragon made of shadow, a dragon with many heads that breathes out clouds of blinding smoke.

Hydra.

When the monster finds you, you know there's no escape. Its shadows wrap around you, cold as ice. Tendrils of darkness shove their way into your mouth, silencing your screams as lightning shoots all through your body from your temples to your toes.

You wake from those dreams with a jolt as strong as if you were back in the Chair, gasping for breath and sweating all over. You have to sit up and turn on the light then, even though you can't do anything or make too much noise for fear of waking the others.

Sometimes, irrationally, you catch yourself wishing that Steve would wake up for some reason and come knocking on your door to find out why you turned your light on in the middle of the night. But that's stupid. There's nothing he could do one way or another, because it's just a bad dream.

Besides...the old Bucky didn't have nightmares like this. He didn't have a reason to. He wasn't afraid of anything. According to Steve, he was too  _brave_ and  _strong_ and  _good_ to wake up in a cold sweat after dreaming about a  _rooftop,_ of all things.

You can feel a pressure building up inside you, pressing harder and harder against the inside of your chest, straining to get out. You're afraid to put a name to it, because then it will be real and you'll have to deal with it.

But something's going to break soon. You can feel it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The day that everything falls apart starts so innocuously. It starts out like any other day, as you head downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast. When you get there, you find Sam stirring up batter to make blueberry pancakes. He and Steve both seem particularly cheerful today; there's something almost...festive in the air.

As you eat, the others start talking about going to see fireworks tonight. They discuss where they might be able to get a good spot to watch, and the possibility of finding a bar or a cafe that might be open afterwards while the crowds thin out. “Somewhere we can get cake!” Sam says with a laugh.

You don't get it. It's like you missed a vital part of the conversation, even though you've been here for the whole thing. Finally, when there's a lull in the conversation, you say, “Why's there going to be fireworks tonight?”

When Sam looks surprised and Steve looks disappointed, you realize you've said the wrong thing. “Dude,” Sam says, “Fourth of July! Independence Day?  _Someone's_ birthday?” He tilts his head meaningfully in Steve's direction.

You catch Steve's eye and see the disappointment there. He'd actually hoped that you would remember his birthday, when you even had to be told your own name? You quickly hang your head and clench your jaw, unable to face him anymore.

“That's okay,” Steve says with false cheer. “Don't worry about it.” He goes back to discussing the plans for the day with Sam.

It's like you don't exist. Anything you have to say is a mere distraction from what they really want to talk about. Every time you open your mouth, you just end up reminding them what a handful you are. What a let-down.

What are you even doing here? Isn't it clear by now that you're not going to retrieve any of your memories? If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now, with all the stories and the constant reminder of Steve's presence. But here you are, still empty. Still just the husk of a man who's never coming back.

“Yeah,” Steve says to Sam with a laugh, oblivious, “Bucky always used to joke that the fireworks were for me.” Suddenly he turns to you, his eyes bright and his smile wide. “Hey, do you remember the time—“

“No!” Before you realize what you're doing, you're on your feet and slamming your hands down on the table with a bang that rattles the silverware. “No, Steve, I _don't_ remember! I'm never _going_ to remember, so _shut up and stop asking me!_ ”

All cheer has fled Steve's face now, and his eyes are round and sad. That's not the look you want him to send your way. “I'm sorry, Bucky, I—“

“I'm not Bucky!” You slam your fist on the table for emphasis, and it cracks in the middle. Dishes and food go tumbling to the floor, but Steve and Sam both remain in their seats, looking up at you. Their eyes are like needles, injecting guilt into your veins.

You hastily shove the guilt down and squash it into a little ball, but that only leaves room for the anger to boil up. So you keep yelling, part of you feeling a sick pleasure at the looks of shock and dismay on their faces. They thought they knew you, but you're proving them wrong. For once, you feel powerful.

“I _don't remember you,_ Steve! How many times do I have to say it? I don't remember you, I don't remember your mom or my family or anything we ever did together! None of your stories mean _anything_ to me, because there's _nothing_ in here!” You grip your head with both hands, feeling desperate now.

“I _have_ no past. They took it all away, and it's never coming back, and the sooner you realize that, the better!”

“Bucky....” Moving slowly, Steve gets to his feet, reaching out a hand toward you.

You know he's not going to hurt you, but your body reacts before your mind (with its nonexistent memories) can stop you. “Shut up!” you yell, lashing out before he can touch you.

Steve apparently wasn't expecting this, and he ends up on the floor in a sticky puddle of syrup. He looks up at you—not retaliating, not even trying to get up, just staring at you with wide blue eyes, so  _sad...._

Just like in the helicarrier. When you had him pinned, and you were beating him within an inch of his life. He was so sad, so utterly  _disappointed_ in you, that he was ready to let you kill him. He thought that, if you couldn't remember him even after everything he'd done...it was better to die.

Like the coward you are, you turn tail and run. You slam the front door behind yourself and race out into the warm morning air, not looking back once.

But you can feel his eyes on you, even when you've put miles between you. Those eyes will haunt you forever, because you  _know_ you were in the wrong, and he does too.

And the worst feeling in the whole world is knowing that he will never  _look_ at you the way you want him to, ever again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time you run out of breath and slow down, you're not sure where you are. So you pick a direction and just start walking, shoving your hands into your pockets and fighting to get your breath under control.

For a long time, you just walk. You have no destination, no plan. You don't even really think about much. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other, numbly moving forward simply because you have nothing left behind you.

What a perfect metaphor for your entire existence.

After walking the streets for a long time, you find your steps turning towards a bus station. Big buses are lining up, taking people to different cities and bringing them home. You slip into the bus station and sink onto an empty bench, staring up at the timetable announcing arrivals and departures.

You could get on one. Just...get on and _go._ You could pickpocket someone's ticket, or sneak past the barrier when no one's looking. It would be pretty easy. Then, in a few hours, you could be far away from here.

The destinations are listed plainly.  _Boston...New York City...Philadelphia...Atlanta...Chicago...._ You don't know what any of those names mean. Well, you know that Brooklyn is a place in New York City, and that's where you and Steve grew up, but that's about it. You'd have to go digging through a map of the country to even find out where any of those cities are. If they'd be far enough away.

Far enough for what, though? What do you want to do? Where do you want to go?

Nothing. Nowhere. Bucky Barnes was a person who wanted things. A person who went places and made decisions.

But you're not Bucky Barnes. So you just sit there for a while, then you get up and walk back outside.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket several times throughout the day, but you do your best to ignore it. It's Steve, of course, and you have nothing more to say to him. You should probably just drop the phone in the nearest trash can or something.

For some reason, you don't.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Time passes. You keep walking. Just plodding forward. Aimless. Directionless. Purposeless.

When you walk through crowds in the busier part of town, everyone seems to be happy. There are bright banners, fluttering flags, laughter and smiles, everywhere you look. It's a beautiful, sunny day, perfect for a holiday. A day for getting together with your family and friends, to eat good food and laugh together and celebrate.

But you don't have family. You don't have friends. You have nothing to celebrate. So you leave the crowds behind and keep walking.

By the time you realize where you're going, the sun is setting. You've been walking all day, and even though you never really had a destination in mind, you discover that your feet have carried you back to the beginning. Back to where this all started.

The apartment building rises into the air above you, a few of the windows beginning to light up against the darkening sky. Looks like they've fixed the window you shot through that night. Someone seems to have moved in. Someone is living there, probably with no idea that someone almost died there.

Like so many times before, you make your way to the roof of the building on the end of the row, where you first came face-to-face with Steve. Just like every other time, you go to the edge of the roof, standing in the place where you supposedly stood that night. And just like every other time, you strain to remember something. _Anything._

Your mind is blank. Your heart is hollow. You are empty.

After a moment's consideration, you step up onto the low wall that acts as a railing around the edge of the roof. Steve said this is where you stood when you caught the shield that he threw at you. Then you threw it back, like some kind of high-stakes frisbee game, and disappeared into the night.

You don't remember doing that. Steve probably isn't making it up; it's too strange of an incident to be believable; no one would try to sell it unless it had actually happened. But even that tiny little moment, which seems so inexplicably special to Steve, is lost to you. You can't even remember that tiny connection, that moment you first looked into each other's eyes.

No, all you can remember is beating him up. All you can remember is disappointing him.

And if that's all you can remember...if that's all that you  _are..._ maybe you should do the same thing you did that night. Disappear before you can hurt him any more.

Tipping your head back, you look up at the sky, now a deep royal blue. You can only see one star against the city lights. A single, blindingly bright point of light, so far away that the warmth of that distant sun will never reach your cold heart. No matter how hard it tries. Just like Steve.

As if on cue, your phone starts buzzing again. No matter where you go—even if you  _had_ taken a bus to some other city—that buzzing would follow you everywhere, like an annoying fly in your pocket. He's not going to let you go that easily. Not Steve Rogers. But every time the phone vibrates, it seems to twist something in your chest, tighter and tighter. The only way to avoid that guilty, shameful  _ache_ is to get rid of the phone, or....

Your gaze turns downward, to the street far below. Or...to get rid of  _you._

After all...what purpose do you serve? Steve has no need of the husk of a man, who can't even remember that you used to be friends. You have no missions. No goals. A blank dark expanse of  _nothing_ opens in front of you, just like the sky over your head. There is nothing in your past. Nothing in your present. Nothing in your future.

The phone isn't vibrating anymore, though you can't remember when it stopped. Of course he gave up on you. You really are alone now.

Your mind seems to be a million miles away from your body as you look down at the ground far below. You gauge the distance in a detached manner, trying to decide if the building is tall enough for this. Four stories tall. Is that enough to kill you, or just to break a few bones? Or even worse, break your spine and leave you paralyzed?

After a minute's consideration, you thoughtfully pull out the knife you bring with you everywhere. It's a good knife—sharp, straight edge, good grip. Perfect for making quick cuts and getting the job done. It fits easily in your hand, a familiar weight. More familiar than anything Steve has said about you.

This should do. You can tuck the tip of the knife into the crease where your chin meets your neck, and try to fall on that arm, so it will push the knife right through your neck. Even if you don't manage to fall just right, there's a good chance you'll slice open something important. And if you're still conscious on the ground, and have the use of at least one arm, you can easily finish the job.

Or you could just slit your throat up here. It would be faster. Less mess. You know exactly where to cut to make it bleed fastest. You don't remember learning that, but you know it...well, even  _better_ than you know your own name.

You really are a monster, aren't you, if  _that's_ the thing you remember most.

Gritting your teeth, you raise the knife to your throat. You can feel your blood pulsing against the cold blade, counting down the seconds of your life. You'll do it.... You're going to do it.... You  _will_ do it....

Breath ragged. Hands trembling. You... _can't_ do it. You're so much of a coward, you can't even do this.

Once more, you look down at the ground. Maybe falling  _is_ the best way. You just have to take one step...just one step.... Just tip your body weight forward, and let yourself tumble to the ground....

Just as soon as that man passes by on the street below. What's he doing out at this time, anyway? Shouldn't he be inside, celebrating Independence Day or Captain America Day or whatever this holiday is supposed to be? He should be minding his own business instead of stopping in the middle of the sidewalk across the way and...what's he doing? Looking in this direction...at you? Can he see you from that distance?

You lower the knife just in case he can see it. After all, it wouldn't do to have anyone call the police.... And then your phone buzzes again.

Just as the man below raises something to his ear, all the while staring up at you.

Numbly, you pull your phone out of your pocket and answer the call. Immediately, Steve's voice pours into your ear.

“ _Don't do it! Please, Bucky,_ please _don't do it!”_

“What are you doing here?” Your voice sounds rough and broken, like your throat is filled with shards of glass.

“ _Looking for you.”_ Steve's breath is coming hard and fast, as if he's been running, even though you saw him walking calmly by. _“I-I've been looking for you all day.... Please, Buck, we can talk about this.”_

“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, clenching your fist tighter around the handle of your knife. Funny. You're trembling all over, but it's a warm night. Doesn't make any sense.

“ _Please, just...step away from the edge. You don't want to do this, Bucky....”_

And suddenly, you're screaming. “Don't you get it?  _I'm not Bucky!_ I'm not your friend, and you have  _no idea_ what I want!”

His free hand raises in surrender, extended as though he can reach across the distance and stop you before you take that one step.  _“Okay,”_ he says shakily.  _“I'm sorry, B— I'm sorry. Can you...tell me what you_ do _want?”_

A laugh rips through your chest, as painful as a bullet. “How should I know? I don't  _remember_ anything! All I know is what you've  _told_ me, but I don't know any of that for myself, do I? So how could I  _possibly_ know what I want when I don't even know who I  _am?_ ”

Steve's breath is ragged, his hand still in the air as if that's the only thing keeping you from falling.  _“But...don't you want to find out? If...If you do this...that's the end. But if you just...if you give it another chance....”_

“What's the _point?_ ” You're not sure when you started crying, but tears are streaming down your face and dripping from your nose to plummet to the ground far, far below. You almost tip forward and follow them, but your feet seem rooted to the concrete. “We've tried everything. I've been trying to remember; I've done nothing _but_ try to remember, but it's all gone! They took it all away, and it's never coming back, and I'm just going to keep disappointing you, and there's nothing you or anyone else can do about it!”

“ _It's okay,_ ” Steve says, sounding like he's struggling to keep his voice calm. “ _If you don't remember...that's fine. I'm sorry if I put too much pressure on you. Please don't be too hard on yourself if you can't remember. It's not your fault, and no one blames you for it._ ”

“That doesn't matter!” you snap, swiping the knife through the air.

Instead of taking a step back, as he might have if he were right in front of you, Steve takes a step forward. Still reaching out to you.

“I'm not Bucky Barnes!” you shout again, jabbing the knife towards yourself for emphasis. “I don't remember anything about him, I don't remember _being_ him, and I never will, and-and how c-can I know who I _a-am_ if I don't kn-know who I _was?_ ” You swipe the back of your hand holding the knife across your face, and you see Steve start and take another step forward, as if he thought you were going to do something with the knife. “I'm not Bucky, so who am I? Huh? Can you tell me _that,_ Steve? _Who am I if I'm not Bucky?_ ”

For a long, drawn-out moment, the whole world is frozen and still. Steve stares up at you, too far away to make out his expression. He has nothing to say. No answer to the questions burning a hole in you ever since that first time he  _looked_ at you. And you thought, foolish  _idiot_ that you were, that he would be able to give you those answers. You finally found the words to ask him, and yet there he stands, speechless.

Until you hear a ragged breath over the phone. His voice goes soft and choked, as though  _he's_ crying too.  _“You're someone that I love. Even if you can't be Bucky...you'll always be someone that I love very much.”_

Whatever you were expecting him to say, it wasn't that. You're trembling again, shaking all over. The knife slips from your hand, bounces on the edge of the wall, and falls onto the roof. It's a wonder the phone doesn't drop too.

“Why?” you whisper, staring down at him. You wish you could see his face, because surely... _surely_ he's lying, right? “I don't _remember_ you, I-I don't....”

“ _You don't have to.”_ His voice is soaked with tears, but it's so soft. Somehow, even though you can't make out the features of his face, you feel like he's gazing right into your eyes. _“I remember_ you. _And the person I remember? He's my best friend.”_

“B-But...I'm not...I'm n-not that B-Bucky any...anymore....” And oh, how you wish you could be, how you wish you could deserve even an ounce of the affection pouring out of every word, but you know you can't, and you never will....

Steve takes another step towards you. Now he's standing in the middle of the street.  _“That's not what I'm talking about.”_

“Wh-What?”

“ _I remember you pulling me from the river. I remember you saving my life. I remember you coming to me,_ trusting _me, even when you didn't remember me at all. If you don't want me to call you Bucky anymore, that's okay. If you never remember anything, if...if you don't want to see me again...that's okay.”_ His voice breaks, belying the calm tone of his words. _“But that doesn't stop you from being...the strongest and bravest man I've ever known. And I'm not just talking about the past. You had every reason to follow their orders, but you didn't. You had every reason to run far away, but you_ didn't. _You came to find me. To get answers. To figure out who you are.”_

He sniffles, and you can see him swipe his free hand over his eyes.  _“That's who I remember. Not someone who takes the easy way out. Someone who's brave enough to face the truth, even if it's hard. That's who you used to be, and that's who you are now. Not even Hydra could change that. They could take away your memories, but not who you_ are. _No matter what you remember, that's who you'll always be. And that's who I'll always love.”_

His words roll towards you like a tidal wave of warmth and light, pushing you back from the edge of the abyss. You stumble back a step—only, you've forgotten that you're standing on the low wall around the roof, and you fall back in a heap.

“ _Buck—I mean, a-are you okay?”_

You sit up again, heart pounding and backside smarting, feeling rather stupid. Somehow, you managed to hold the phone to your ear the entire time. Kneeling on the roof, you peer over the wall at Steve, who's on the near side of the street now, free hand gripping his hair helplessly. You can just about make out his worried expression.

“Yeah,” you say shakily. “I-I'm fine.”

“ _Can I...come up? Will...Will you stay? Until I get there?”_

What he's really asking is if you're going to jump. Or do anything else. Your eyes stray to the knife you dropped, but it doesn't look quite as tempting as it did before. Drawing a deep breath, you say, “I'll be here.”

He's off like a shot, running for the stairs that will lead up here. You can hear him breathing hard over the phone. Neither of you hang up.

He's running for you. You nearly killed him, you can't remember him, you've been disappointing him for months, and today you yelled at him. It's his birthday, but you yelled at him, pushed him down, made him worry and chase after you all day. And then you yelled at him some more and threatened to kill yourself. You've never shown him an ounce of gratitude, only bitterness.

And yet...he's  _running._ Trying to get to you as fast as possible, as if there's nothing in the world he wants more than to be by your side. As if he doesn't care how horrible you've been to him. As if...you're  _worth_ all this trouble.

Sitting back against the low wall, you cover your face with your hand and try to stop crying. But the tears come harder and faster, and you can barely breathe. At first, you try to keep quiet so Steve won't know, but it's a losing battle. Besides, Steve will see you in a minute or two anyway.

“ _Talk to me?”_ Even though his breath is coming in short bursts, Steve's voice is so gentle.

“I don't r-remember much....” It's hard to talk past the sobs ripping their way out your throat. “Don't remember...growing u-up together...or...or fighting in-in-in alleyways....” You desperately mop at your eyes and clear your throat, trying to get a hold of yourself. “But...what I _do_ remember...is what you said. On-On the helicarrier. You said....” Your voice breaks, but you take a breath and plunge on, even though it feels like someone is strangling you from the inside.

“You said I was your friend. Even though...even though I was.... And then you _looked_ at me, like...l-like no one ever had...and...and you said....”

The door creaks open, and there he is. Steve takes a few steps closer, breathing hard, stumbling to a stop a few feet away. When he speaks, you can hear his voice right in front of you as well as over the phone. “I'm with you...to the end...of the line.'”

You both lower your phones at the same time and just...look at each other. Steve's chin is trembling, tears streaking down his cheeks. He takes a step forward, and his eyes meet yours...and you can't look away.

You're the one on the ground this time, and he's standing over you, but his eyes glow with the same emotion you saw that day. It's the same look that haunted you, that convinced you to go find him again. There's sadness and pain, true, but also....

“I loved the person you used to be,” Steve says, ever so softly. “And I will love whoever you choose to be in the future. So...please believe me when I say...I love who you are _now_ too.”

He holds out his hand, just like he did when you were about to jump off the edge. Trying to breach the gap between you.

Because he wants you. After everything you've done...after failing him in every possible way...he still wants you.

So you raise your hand, trembling, and hesitantly begin to reach for him.

He doesn't even wait for you to close the distance, but steps forward, grasps your hand, and pulls you easily to your feet. And he doesn't stop there. Before you know what's happening, his arms are around you in a tight, warm embrace.

You're not sure if it's a memory or not, but this feels... _right._ Maybe you don't know anything else about yourself, and maybe you never will, but there's one thing that you  _do_ know: You like this. You like Steve. A lot. You want him to be happy, you want to stop hurting him and disappointing him, you want him to  _look_ at you and  _smile_ at you, to  _see_ you and  _know_ you, and...and to be filled with this painful, wonderful, aching, exhilarating  _joy...._

“Is this what love feels like?”

A shuddering sound from Steve, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, tells you that you said that out loud. He squeezes you even tighter, burying his face in your shoulder as he chokes out, “Yeah. I-I think it is.”

Slowly, like a miracle you have no control over, the corners of your lips tug upwards in a smile. Have you ever smiled before? According to Steve and all the pictures and videos, you used to smile a lot. But you don't remember that. All you remember is this moment, this first smile cracking through the dark despair you've been carrying around for so long.

It feels  _so good._

It feels like a beginning.

~*~*~*~*~*~

You're not sure how long it's been, but you and Steve are still on the rooftop. For the longest time, you just stood there holding each other, but now you're sitting side-by-side on the low wall, letting your feet dangle over the edge. Funny. Just a little while ago, sitting here probably would have been frightening and tempting all at once, and you wouldn't have been able to think about anything except that drop to the ground far below. But you don't have to worry about that anymore, because Steve's strong arm is wrapped around you in a warm, comfortable embrace, holding you safe at his side.

Besides, this is where you stood that night where everything began. And it doesn't matter that you don't remember it. Tonight, you're going to sit here and make new memories. Both of you.

Sniffling, you wipe a few more tears away. You've mostly stopped crying, finally, but every now and then a few more tears will trickle down in response to a thought or a word. It doesn't seem to take much. You probably haven't cried much in the past several decades, so maybe it's all coming out at once now. The tears can't come in response to memories, since you don't have any, so this is their best outlet.

“Are you...sure you're okay with this?” you ask shakily. “Even if I...never remember anything? Ever?”

“Absolutely,” Steve says, without hesitation. He doesn't have to stop and think about it even for a single second.

You can't help staring at him. “ _Why?_ ” Really, that's the only question you've been asking all this time. Why is he content with settling for so much less than he deserves? How is it enough for him to just...take you as you are? Right now?

Steve looks back at you with a cheeky little smirk. “Because.”

You roll your eyes, but can't keep back a smile. “That's not a  _reason._ ”

His smile softens, and there's that  _look_ again, so close and so warm it takes your breath away. “Do I need one?”

A flash of light saves you from having to answer. You look up, and see a brilliant burst of red stars spreading against the night sky. The crack of a distant explosion follows a moment later. Then there's a burst of green, then purple and white and blue and gold, and suddenly the sky is full of fireworks, one after another.

Steve tips his head back to look up at the fireworks lighting up the sky. Vibrant colors splash over his face and in his eyes as his smile widens into a grin of childlike wonder, as if he'd forgotten what day it was.

You don't remember saying it, but  _he_ does. So you say it again, so that it will live in your memory too. “It's like the whole country is celebrating your birthday, isn't it?”

At first, his face blanks with surprise, but slowly he begins to smile again. He scoots a little closer, resting his head against yours as you both turn back to watch the fireworks.

There's silence for a few moments, broken only by the pops and cracks in the distance. When Steve speaks again, his voice is quiet and hesitant. “Hey, um...you can...well, feel free to say no, if-if you don't want me to, but....” You're close enough that you can hear him swallow hard. “Is it okay if I still call you Bucky?”

You lean deeper into his embrace, resting your head on his shoulder and smiling when you feel him shifting to make it more comfortable. The finale of the fireworks show begins, dozens and dozens of multicolored lights shooting into the sky without pause. The city sky, usually so flat and blank, is now filled with stars.

“Of course you can. That's who I am.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

_I'm the one you love  
_ _That will be enough_

_\- “Remind Me Who I Am” by Jason Gray_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear any thoughts you have. If you're interested in receiving regular updates on my writing in between posting, please see my profile for more information.


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